


where no hand had the right to be

by miladys-winter (lykxxn)



Series: here at least we shall be free [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen, intercision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 10:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3689565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lykxxn/pseuds/miladys-winter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> Suddenly all the breath was thrust from Aramis's lungs. It was as if all the power had drained from his body and a hand had seized inside his heart and felt around where no hand had the right to be. His stomach twisted violently and he fought the urge to vomit. Rochefort was </i>touching<i> her. </i></p><p>The punishment for treason is intercision, and Rochefort is practically jumping at the chance to finally destroy Aramis once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where no hand had the right to be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Loki_Likey_Thor_Odinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loki_Likey_Thor_Odinson/gifts).



> Title is taken directly from Pullman's _Northern Lights_.
> 
> This fic is over a year old, and I consider this outdated in reference to the dæmons chosen for the characters. With that in mind, I have updated this fic, along with the others in the series. [Click here to go to the new, updated fic!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7479384)

Aramis shuddered, leaning against the cold wall as she buried her head into a crook in his neck. He reached up a grubby hand to stroke her feathers; once a brilliant white, they were now grey and dusty. "Chenoa," he croaked, "I'm so, so sorry."

"I know," she murmured. "Me too."

He rubbed a finger across her head, wanting to touch her as much as he could before it was too late. He couldn't imagine a world without her, and yet it was less than twenty four hours before he would lose her forever.

"I always knew you'd be something," she said softly, not daring to break the subdued silence that had enveloped the prison. "We did well, Aramis."

"I know we did," he replied, wanting nothing more to cup his dæmon in his hands and rub her against his cheek. For the first time in his life she seemed frail and afraid - but then so must he. "I wish I were dead," he hissed angrily. "Death would be better than this. And instead I have to live! Better to die a coward than live on with no soul, I say!"

Aramis glared through the cell bars, furious at the demise he had been resigned to. "But of course Rochefort will be revelling in it, won't he? One of the King's Musketeers - convicted of treason and sentenced to intercision!"

Chenoa cooed quietly into his neck, and finally Aramis turned to her. In a few hours, he would have nothing left. No dignity, no job, and worst of all, no dæmon.

* * *

When dawn broke, Rochefort stormed down the hallway of the prison, his vulture-dæmon sneering from where she was perched on his shoulder. "Good morning, Musketeer," hissed Rochefort, pulling a set of keys from his belt and unlocking the cell door. Immediately Aramis flung himself at him, but Rochefort, obviously prepared for the attack, gave Aramis an almighty shove which left him gasping for breath as he collided roughly with the wall. Rochefort gave his vulture-dæmon a comforting stroke on the head, and she eyed Chenoa hungrily.

Aramis glared as Chenoa ruffled her feathers defiantly. "You can't do this," he stated, and his voice betrayed him as it shook in fear.

"Oh," laughed Rochefort, "but I _can_." He reached out a hand, and suddenly all the breath was thrust from Aramis's lungs. It was as if all the power had drained from his body and a hand had seized inside his heart and felt around where no hand had the right to be. His stomach twisted violently and he fought the urge to vomit. Rochefort was _touching_ her. He grasped the dæmon in his hands as she shook, and then he glanced to Aramis, who had gone almost white. His dove-dæmon, however, looked much worse for wear. Chenoa was shaking terribly in horror and disgust, and her feathers held no sign of life.

Aramis shrunk back at the sight of Rochefort, grinning wildly at the Musketeer's dæmon in his human hands. Aramis could _feel_ those hands. It felt so _wrong_. This wasn't _supposed_ to happen. It wasn't _allowed_.

And then the moment that Aramis had been dreading came. Rochefort pulled a knife from his belt and raised his arm high; his vulture-dæmon flapped her wings agitatedly, and he brought the knife firmly down in between Aramis and his dæmon.

No kind of wound inflicted upon him could ever have hurt as much as he did at that moment. Aramis howled in pain as he felt himself tearing in two; he could feel her separating from him, and he reached out his arms in desperation.

Rochefort laughed, sneered even. He glanced between Aramis and Chenoa. The longer he prolonged this, he thought, the better. And, slower this time, he brought the knife down again.

Aramis positively screamed, and Chenoa let out a wailed noise. Aramis was wholly grateful that Constance had been moved from the prison, for he didn't think he could handle having her there to see the fate she would be subject to - nor did he think, strong as she was, _she_ could handle it. Aramis was shaking now, face pale, eyes wide.

The third time Rochefort brought the knife down was the final. Aramis let out an ear-splitting scream of pure agony, and then there was nothing. He gazed dully at Rochefort as the life drained from his body, as if he were bleeding to death somehow.

Rochefort, with a satisfied smirk, cradled the shaking and almost lifeless dove-dæmon in his hands, turned on his heels and left.

Aramis had no idea how long he had lain there, feeling the life drain away and clutching out at thin air for Chenoa. "I'm sorry, Constance," he murmured softly. He was dying, he could feel it, for the dull ache in his chest was fading. He rubbed the leather pad on his shoulder firmly. "All for one," he murmured sincerely, closing his eyes. He had to see them, just one last time.

D'Artagnan. Athos. Porthos. Tréville. Anne. His son. The silver crucifix.

And then there was nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> There's a possibility of a "sequel" including Constance's intercision if anybody's not too heartbroken after this.


End file.
